


Intimacy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Psycho-Pass
Genre: Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Morbid, No Plot/Plotless, No Safeword, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Topping from the Bottom, Trust Kink, death kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-17 02:53:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I think killing someone must be the most intimate relationship,' Makishima says, and his voice has gone dreamy, his eyes unfocused and staring out over the top of Kogami’s head like he’s seeing something completely different than what’s in front of them." Makishima is morbid and Kogami is compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intimacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kitade Death (Kitade_Death)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kitade+Death+%28Kitade_Death%29), [RubyFiamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RubyFiamma/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Близость](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9199247) by [daana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daana/pseuds/daana)



“Do you ever think about dying?” Makishima asks one afternoon.

Kogami looks up from the book he’s reading, eyes the shine of sunlight off Makishima’s hair where he’s sitting gazing out the half-open window. The blinds are drawn wide, ruffling in the occasional gust of wind; they catch at Makishima’s shoulder, wind against his elbow like the fabric is trying to kiss him, and Makishima reaches out to ghost his fingers through their folds without looking at either them or Kogami.

“There’s not much to think about,” Kogami says, careful on the words like every one is the trigger for a landmine. The book in his hands tips down, the pages shifting in the breeze, but he’s not paying attention to it anymore, has forgotten even the subject; he’s watching Makishima’s shoulders tilt instead, the angle of his hip as he leans against the windowframe. “Oblivion isn’t particularly interesting.”

“Not death,” Makishima says out the window, turns his head to look back at Kogami. His eyes are wide, swallowing the light and turning it into a glow from their gold instead of the sunlight outside, his mouth curved on a slow smile at something he’s not sharing. “Dying.” He turns away from the window, slow like a dance, moves across the few steps to the bed so he can crawl up next to Kogami’s casual sprawl. His fingers close on the book, draw it aside and closed with the careful reverence Makishima always shows to texts before he reaches out for Kogami’s face, trails his fingers across the other man’s jawline like he’s marking out the lines of a statue.

“I do,” he breathes, eyes following his fingers and not Kogami’s gaze. “It’s a shame that I’ll only get to experience it once.” His touch slides down, against Kogami’s neck, down to his shoulder before rising back up with the careful drag of deliberation. “Imagine the thrill of it,” he says, fitting his thumb to Kogami’s pulse, the pressure of his hold lingering like a kiss, like a promise. “To know your existence is measured in the span of heartbeats.” He takes a breath, sighs it out in a rush; his eyelashes flutter, his mouth curves on a smile. “Think how precious everything must become.”

Kogami can feel his forehead crease into strain, his mouth drop into a frown. “It would be horrible,” he says, reaches up to curl his fingers around Makishima’s wrist and draw it away from his adrenaline-speeding pulse. “To know that it’s the last, to miss all the goodbyes you never got to say.”

“I think killing someone must be the most intimate relationship,” Makishima says, and his voice has gone dreamy, his eyes unfocused and staring out over the top of Kogami’s head like he’s seeing something completely different than what’s in front of them. “Dying at someone else’s hand is the greatest romance.”

Kogami feels a chill like ice trickling itself down his spine. “Stop it.”

“I think about it, sometimes,” Makishima continues. His fingers are sliding over Kogami’s wrists, drawing the others’ hands palm-up so he can trail friction across them; he fits his thumb against one of the lines, presses in against it as he goes on. “What it would be like for you to kill me.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Kogami says. His hands are curling in on themselves, like he has some secret laid into his palms he’s trying to protect. “Stop talking like this, Shogo.”

“It would be so easy,” Makishima sighs. “A gun or a knife or a punch, if you aimed just right.” He draws Kogami’s hand up, settles it against his throat. Kogami can feel the flutter of Makishima’s heartbeat against his fingertips, birdwing delicate and too fast with heat.

“Just like this,” Makishima says, shutting his eyes and tipping his head back. His hair slides over his shoulders, turns itself to a cascade of white down his back; his throat makes itself a column, pale as marble and delicate as glass. “All you would have to do is squeeze, Shinya.” His fingers shift, press Kogami’s hand in closer; Kogami can feel the motion of his throat when he swallows, the speed of his heartbeat going hotter. “You have my life in your hands.”

“ _Stop_ ,” Kogami says, wrenches his hand away and out of Makishima’s hold. Makishima laughs, a bubbling spill of sound with his head still tilted back before he tips his chin down, reaches out to brace himself against the wall and lean in until the trailing ends of his hair fall between Kogami and the sunlight.

“That’s a shame,” Makishima purrs. His eyes look darker out of direct sunlight, fading to something of a bronze instead of the overbright gold they sometimes look. “I’ll have to keep trying to convince you.”

“I’m not going to kill you,” Kogami says as Makishima leans in to ghost a kiss across his lower lip. Kogami reaches out, fits his fingers against the fragility of the other’s hip, and Makishima hums against his mouth, slides his knees wider to press himself against Kogami’s lap. “Don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not joking,” Makishima says, but he says it softly enough that Kogami can pretend he didn’t hear, can shut off the uncomfortable fear that prickles up his spine and shut his eyes to the uncanny beauty that catches itself against Makishima’s features, can let the slide of the other’s lips on his melt away the chill in his blood and purr human heat into his veins. It doesn’t take long, as it never takes long when Makishima is pressing in against him like this; Kogami licks in against Makishima’s mouth, tastes the burnt-sugar caramel that always lingers against his tongue, and Makishima arches in close, presses the lines of his chest against Kogami’s with the full force of his minimal weight. Kogami’s fingers find out the edge of Makishima’s shirt, push it up while Makishima is fitting his touch to the front of Kogami’s jeans, and for a few minutes there’s no space for speech between the slide of fabric and the click of zippers. Makishima ducks out of his shirt, slides backwards over Kogami’s legs to tug the other’s jeans down over his knees and off to toss over the end of the bed. The wind from the window ruffles into his hair, tangles the long trailing strands around his shoulders; Kogami watches them flutter like feathers while Makishima pushes at the edge of his pants to urge them off his hips without bothering with unfastening the fly. His skin is oddly shadowed laid bare like this, drawing into valleys against the press of his bones; when he moves back in over the bed to crawl over Kogami’s legs every motion is turned into a flicker of light across shoulder or hip or throat.

“I think about it a lot,” Makishima breathes, the words turning into a purr between the gold of his eyes and the slow edge of his smile. With Kogami’s blood going hot under the friction of Makishima’s skin the threat is less chilling, feels a little like the biting edge of arousal in his veins; he turns his head up towards Makishima’s mouth, breaths in the sugar on his lips, reaches to fit his fingers against pale-edged hipbones. Makishima’s hands wind into his shirt, slide buttons free of the grasp of fabric, and when he tilts his weight forward it’s to grind himself in against the heat of Kogami’s length.

“It must be so intimate,” Makishima says. He’s hard against Kogami’s hip; when he rolls his weight forward his cock catches, slides against the bottom edge of the other’s white shirt. Kogami can hear the shudder of reaction in Makishima’s breathing, the catch of friction in his throat. “To share your last moments with someone.”

“You’re crazy,” Kogami says, draws on Makishima’s hips to urge him closer as his shirt falls open. Makishima purrs laughter over his mouth, fits his fingers against the support of Kogami’s shoulder so he can tip himself sideways and reach for the bottle alongside the bed. His spine arches, curves itself into poetry made visible; Kogami can see the way his collarbones slide under his skin, the motion rippling fluid as water.

“The greatest intimacy there is,” Makishima goes on, uncurving his spine as Kogami rocks his hips up to grind himself against the heat of Makishima’s cock. He earns himself a gasp, a hiss of breath past barely-parted lips as Makishima lets his shoulder go so he can slick his fingers into glistening promise. “Greater than friendship.” The bottle drops to the bed, forgotten immediately by them both. “Greater than family.” Makishima’s head tilts back, his throat bared for illumination; his fingers light on Kogami’s shoulders again, spread wide so he can brace himself on his fingertips. “Greater than lovers.” His throat works as he slides into himself; Kogami can see the soundless flex of his throat, the strained swallow of reaction that doesn’t make it to his vocal chords.

Kogami draws Makishima in against him, pulls him in closer by an inch; Makishima tilts forward, lets his chin drop. His hair slides over his shoulder, tangles on the buttons of Kogami’s undone shirt, and Kogami lets one of his holds go, curls his fingers in around Makishima’s length instead so he can draw them in together, can fit the heat of his cock flush against Makishima’s. He can feel the thud of Makishima’s heartbeat in the tension under his hold, the twitch of reaction as the other works himself open with careful fingers.

“I don’t think so,” Kogami says, careful and considering in his disagreement. When he draws his hold up over them Makishima shudders, his fingers at Kogami’s shoulder drawing tight for a moment. “This is better.”

“There are more opportunities for this,” Makishima admits, sounding breathless and strained. When Kogami slides his hand back down Makishima rocks himself forward, thrusting against the other’s palm and the line of his cock at once. It makes Kogami groan wordless and hot, makes him stroke faster while Makishima’s pale eyelashes flutter, his throat working open on a soundless moan. “Even this could benefit from the suggestion of danger.”

“What are you talking about?” Kogami asks, and Makishima is tilting forward, slipping his fingers free to take over the grip of Kogami’s hand on them both. His touch is slick, all the cool of the liquid converted into heat by the heat of his body, and when he strokes the motion comes so fast Kogami shudders, back arching up to meet the texture of Makishima’s fingers around him. He doesn’t realize, for a moment, that Makishima’s other hand is sliding sideways, thumb seeking out the curve of his throat and the shudder of his breathing; it’s not until the other man rocks up on his knees, steadies the stroke of his fingers on Kogami’s cock to a bracing hold as he lines himself up, that Kogami can think enough to realize his pulse is pounding hard against the press of Makishima’s thumb.

“Like this,” Makishima says, and starts to sink himself down as his fingers slide and flex against Kogami’s throat. Kogami groans, the sound spilling up his chest, and the vibration catches against the pressure of Makishima’s hand, eddies in on itself like water catching an obstruction mid-stream. Makishima sighs, sounding like the air is being pushed out of him with the press of Kogami’s cock, and his bracing fingers slide away from Kogami’s length, reach out to interlace and tangle at Kogami’s neck.

“It’s not the same,” he says, his voice strained around the tension in his shoulders. When he rocks back up he leans in, pushes hard against Kogami’s throat as he slides up; for a moment Kogami can’t breathe at all, can just feel his chest flexing in reflex made useless by the barrier of Makishima’s fingers. “But it’s close.” He lowers himself again, groaning through another slick slide of pressure, and Kogami gasps a lungful of air as his hips thrust up of their own accord, seeking out a faster rhythm than the slow pace Makishima is setting. Makishima’s eyelashes flutter at the movement, his mouth coming open to interrupt the purr of coherency in his throat, and Kogami reaches out to brace at his hip, to wrap his fingers in around the stiff heat of Makishima’s cock. The contact wins him a shudder through Makishima’s spine, a tightening of the other’s hold, and Kogami starts to stroke over him, pressing his thumb against the spill of pre-come against Makishima’s length as Makishima draws himself up to slide back down onto Kogami’s cock, presses his thumbs in deeper against Kogami’s pulse.

“Your life is in my hands,” Makishima says, sounding dazed and distant; his eyes are unfocused, too, though Kogami isn’t sure if it’s from the drag of his hand around Makishima’s length or the sight of his own fingers flexing at Kogami’s throat. “Every time I press you trust me to let go before you lose consciousness.” He presses down hard, holds it through a full thrust, so Kogami’s groan at the friction dies unheard against Makishima’s fingers. “You’re trusting me with  _everything_.”

 _Yes_ , Kogami wants to say.  _You wouldn’t hurt me_. But he can’t press the sound past Makishima’s hold, is losing the coherency of the words even in the hum of his own mind, and Makishima is smiling at him, the glazed, unfocused expression that says he’s not really listening anyway.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, loosening his fingers for a moment, a half-breath, before tightening again. Kogami’s head is starting to spin, the pressure in his chest aching into pain as his open mouth attempts for oxygen he can’t reach. “You’re not even trying to push me away.”

Kogami blinks, trying to push back the haze creeping at the edge of his vision, proves Makishima’s point by stroking up over him as Makishima drops himself down, tilts his hips to grind heat up Kogami’s spine. Kogami can feel the shudder of pleasure that runs through Makishima with each press of his fingers, the flex of the pressure against his throat; Makishima’s breathing is coming loud in the room, loud enough for the both of them.

“How does it feel?” Makishima asks, tipping himself in closer. His hair slips over his shoulders, catches at Kogami’s arm; Kogami can feel the heat of Makishima’s breathing at his mouth, the temptation of air he can’t suck into the dull burn in his lungs. “Is your vision going?” Kogami’s not sure anymore; all he can see is Makishima, gold eyes and white hair and skin like porcelain, skin like moonlight. “Can you hear me still?” There’s a roaring in the back of Kogami’s head, the sound of the ocean rushing in over him, to drag him under to some unfathomable darkness; his hand is moving on its own, now, stroking out a rhythm as his hips buck up in pursuit of something he can feel but can’t name.

“Shinya,” Makishima breathes, the word more an impression against Kogami’s mouth than a sound or a sight; both are going hazy, his skin prickling with heat, his fingertips threatening numbness. Weight, pressure, lips ghosting over his: “How does it feel?” and Kogami can’t answer but it’s  _heat_ , surging out into him to knock him into distant trembling against the bed, and he’s coming, the force of the sensation tearing through him taking his vision with it entirely. Everything is fading away, Makishima’s voice and the white of his hair and the friction of his lips, and then there’s movement, shuddering tension enough to drag another pulse of heat from Kogami’s cock, and the fingers at his throat loosen as Makishima wails out a gasp and his cock spurts sticky over Kogami’s unmoving fingers, Kogami’s still wrist.

It’s the light that comes back first. Kogami’s shadowed vision clears inverted to how he lost it, clarifying on strands of silver hair before he can make out the dip of Makishima’s shoulder or the pattern of the ceiling overhead. Then the friction, the drag of fingers against his jaw, Makishima’s fingers gone gentle and nonthreatening as he glides his touch over Kogami’s aching throat, down against the shape of his collarbone and the plane of his chest.

“Are you alright?” Makishima asks, the sound of his voice tickling the short-cut hair just against Kogami’s ear.

Kogami swallows. His throat burns with the motion, the memory of pressure near enough to make the movement startling when he can effect it. His voice when he speaks sounds hoarse, too, enough to nearly undo his sincerity when he says, “Yes.”

He can hear the purr on Makishima’s exhale, satisfaction vibration through the thin lines of his chest, but all he says is “I’m glad,” and all Kogami can feel is warmth.


End file.
